


BBCSH 'Wall'  [Unrated as of yet] Drabble-WIP

by tigersilver



Series: 'Wall' [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ‘five things’ thing. Plus one, as that’s how you do. Ongoing, I would think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	BBCSH 'Wall'  [Unrated as of yet] Drabble-WIP

  


BBCSH “Wall’ 

A ‘five things’ thing. _Plus one_ , as that’s how you do. Ongoing, I would think. 

  


I.

The usual thing Sherlock does when he has a case of interest is to create a web. He’s a graphic thinker, absolutely, and it helps him focus when he has images and data and actual thread (he likes yarn, more; sturdy and thick, he can tape or pin items to yarn while he’s still debating where they’ll go in the end-mosaic) to tie it all together. For the issue (question, quandary or puzzle) of John H. Watson, ex-Army, now-locum doctor, assistant and blogger, he begins simply, with a photo of John and his sister (there’s always something) he filches from John’s one last never fully unpacked moving box. It’s a start of the best sort: there’s many a clue to be mined from the image. The origin of the oatmeal jumper (Harry gave it to him; the photo records the giving); the approximate location of John’s childhood home (Sussex; he recognizes the scenery on the outskirts of Brighton; he and his family had visited the area when he was a young boy). A map of Brighton and surrounds is placed next to the photo, with likely locations drawn on is red ink. Then there’s John’s state of mind ten plus years ago (cheery and open and his hair had no intriguing grey in the blond); John’s younger face, creased even then with laugh lines and also a premonition of the faint frown he now always carries, as much a badge as the ribboned honours that stay tucked away in the unpacked box. 

In the photo, Harry is healthy, clear-eyed and also laughing. There’s a ring on her finger that’s bright and shiny but Clara’s not in evidence. Likely she took the picture, then. 

John’s parents seem nowhere about—there are no photos of them in John’s things anywhere—but that only leaves the question begging. Sherlock has been working on that part of it for some time now, without much success. John Watson’s a close-mouthed bugger when he chooses to be. 

He employs his bedroom wall for the John-web, the largest area of plaster being given over to the current criminal case for DI Lestrade and also to Moriarity’s doings, as he reveals them. John’s particular smaller web is to be found centred over his bed, directly above his headboard, and he has to stand upon the mattress, bouncing a bit on his heels, or sometimes balance upon his kneecaps to reach it. The positions he contorts himself into to place his growing stock of evidence, especially the second, and the fact that it’s _his_ bed—a very fine and private place—lend a certain prurient air to his evidence gathering and mapping of same.  It’s a secret from John; his bedroom door is always closed, usually locked, and only Mrs Hudson sometimes enters his sanctum, especially when she’s playing their ‘not-housekeeper’. John never does and Sherlock has never once had the temerity to invite him. This could be because he wonders what John would think, Sherlock having John’s life and photo over the place where Sherlock sleeps and wanks (very occasionally, but yes. He _is_ human.)  It could also be because the room itself would send his tidy John into a frothing conniption. Why incite domestic disturbance when there is no need? There’s always enough of a to-do over the kitchen. 

The third distinct part of the wall is a collection of mobile numbers, all scoured from John’s discarded laundry, his rubbish bin by his desk and his coat. There are fifteen or twenty of them, the majority for females, though two are for men. Of these, John has made additional contact with ten, dated eight and shagged three, his current employer Sarah included. Also included is one of the men, a Sidney Howard. Mr. Howard is of particular interest, Sarah not so much, as she and John are no longer an item by the time Sherlock really begins to assemble his map. Or rather, wall. Wall of Watson, he terms it in his head, and smiles mysteriously at the fancy, much to his flatmate’s occasional annoyance. 

Mister--Doctor, actually—Sidney Ventrescu Howard is also at St. Bart’s, specializing in pediatrics, and he’s a tall, dark-haired, intelligent and erudite man. He’s an acquaintance of Mike’s and all evidence indicates that John has fancied him, much as he may—or may not—have fancied Sherlock at the start of their acquaintance. John has never mentioned Dr. Howard to Sherlock, not once,  and Sherlock has not dared to ask. 

Too, there are bits and pieces gleaned from all the cases John has assisted in next, set off to one side and pinned to the wall with whatever will affix them: a scrap of pink fabric, a can and several smears of yellow spray paint, ginger hairs in a plastic bag, rubbish from a skip, a scrap of spent Semtax, a spent shell casing and so on. They make a semi-colourful blotch on the pale wall and Sherlock considers that to be a most brilliant metaphor. His life with John is certainly brighter and more shocking visually than John’s life would’ve been alone, invalided out. 

His life, as well, naturally. He is in constant need of his blogger. He assumes John has finally realized that. 

Watson’s personal effects and accoutrements are next. ‘Lost’ buttons, the tail-end of a nearly empty can of shaving gel, fingernail clippings rescued from the lav’s bin. Wool from jersies (John owns eighteen of them, an excessive number, and some suit him more than others), snippets gleaned from the inner hems of his rugby shirts (three, in differing stripes and colours), his collection of trousers (seven pairs altogether, including several  sets of denims), bits of rubber form the tread of his shoes (trainers, work boots and dress loafers), and lastly, a pair of dirty pants Sherlock found stuffed beneath John’s mattress one day when John was at work. 

These last are stiff with dried lube and sperm. Regular cotton boxers in an innocuous tartan, they are faintly odiferous still and Sherlock really needs to know why it was that John stashed them away, so thoroughly even he couldn’t find them after…or rather, that he never bothered to dig them out and finally launder them. John is careful with his clothes; this is a minor mystery. The hand towel that accompanied that particular session of nightmare-turned-to-post-stress-wanking was to be found in the hamper just as always, though, and John has never indicated anything special about that night, so… Inconclusive. But Sherlock does occasionally like to smell them. He’ll gather a subtle whiff in his nostrils and hold it there for as long as he can, just so.

He tells himself there’s no shame in doing that without John’s knowledge. His only worry is that the odour of John is fading and he might have to encase them in plastic eventually. He’d rather not, on balance. 

There are also a multitude of plastic sample baggies, tubes and vials containing used tea bags, one with a dried skin of skim milk (which aids Sherlock’s memory when he does the shopping), another rather singular button, stolen from the cuff of John’s camo uniform, and various other small and delicate or ephemeral items, too numerous to count.  There’s rather a lot to the Wall, when he compares it to some of the past webs he’s constructed. 

Then there are Sherlock’s copious notes, scrawled on scraps and pieces of paper found about the flat. They’re interspersed freely throughout the yarn that ties the ephemera together. 

Of all the items on the Wall, these are the most incriminating for Sherlock. Transcripts of message exchanges dating back to the beginning of the acquaintance, lists of this and that connected to John in some obscure or obvious manner, Sherlock’s brilliant (and not-so, always) thoughts and fancies on the ever-unfolding subject and so forth. Lines from poetry, sheet music and his from-memory records of casual conversations, written down for later enlightenment—he doesn’t want these visible to John’s sharp gaze under any circumstances. This depth of obsession, Sherlock is certain, is more than a bit not good. 

While John does love a toothy mystery…often fully explained later, at leisure, when the adrenaline has faded a bit and they give way to matters of transport: food, sleep, laughter, camaraderie; he also detests them on principle.  John prefers matters to be clear. It’s an essential component of his fascination with Sherlock, that Sherlock can clear away the mess and make it so. If Sherlock teases, John will nag away at him. Or demand answers on the spot, which Sherlock often deigns to provide at the behest of John’s terse questioning. But he doesn’t like Sherlock lording it over him. Makes him feel small and, by all that’s holy, Sherlock has no wish to diminish John or make him feel that way through benign oversight or casual play or even by simply forgetting he’s not explained himself. And it _is_ benign. Not all that he feels for John is so, but Sherlock is trying very hard to keep it within bounds he’s set himself. 

Of all things, he wishes to continue building his web, his Wall of John. He cannot do that as efficaciously if John departs. 

  



End file.
